We're just alike, you and I
by xxrageandlovexx
Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty are almost the equivalent halves of one another. The only difference is that Sherlock would do horrible things for love, care. Moriarty does horrible things for the pure entertainment. What will happen, when Jim gets to the Brilliant Consulting Detective? What will happen when the Consulting Detective finally snaps?
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty are almost the equivalent halves of one another. The only difference is that** **Sherlock would do horrible things for love, care. Moriarty does horrible things for the pure entertainment. What will happen, when Jim gets to the Brilliant Consulting Detective? What will happen when the Consulting Detective finally snaps?**

**A/N: Uh yeah. Basically read the thing up above this. I really liked this idea, based slightly on a tumblr post I saw about Jim and Sherlock being almost identical. And how "Sherlock was a good man with no heart, and it's his biggest weakness." and how "Jim was a bad man with a good heart, and it's his greatest tragedy". So... keep that in mind, I suppose. I'm also not a very excellent writer... I apologise.**

**WARNING: Torture, not graphic. Verbal taunting. Vulnerability.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters.**

**POST-REICHENBACH.**

* * *

_ "We're just alike, you and I.  
Except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels.  
You need me, or you're nothing."_

Most people, or children in this case, have had the little voice in their head throughout the entire life they've lived so far. The voice was a person that teachers and parents used to teach and talk about in almost every class and dilemma; Conscience was his name.

**Con•science |**  
**noun**  
**an inner feeling or voice viewed as acting as a guide to the rightness or wrongness of one's behaviour.**

Conscience told you right from wrong, in short-term. If you proceeded to do something wrong, the punishment Conscience would give in return would be guilt.

What if someone hadn't had Conscience in their life? Would that be the reason of the thousands and thousands of shootings, and muggings, and murders?

What if a child had never had that little voice in their head, to tell them something was wrong?

_Interesting thought.  
_

* * *

Jim never had a Conscience. He never had a voice. Sherlock could probably say the same for himself.

But there was a big difference as well between the two, no, a _huge_ difference.

You see, Sherlock had Mycroft. He had Elliot and Gregory Holmes, his loving parents. Well, almost loving. Mummy was usually at work, and Daddy was what you could call, 'somewhat distant'. But Mycroft was there at least. Anyhow, these people, were Sherlock's only Conscience(s). Whenever Sherlock brought home roadkill from the curb of their street, he was always told, _no Sherlock. That's not good._

Whenever he was to say something rude, or to threaten to poison one of the bullies from his school, it was again told, _no Sherlock. That's not good._

It was no use much later, though, after Sherlock had deleted it all. He'd become destructive, not only to himself, but slightly to others as well. Got into illegal drugs. Nearly got himself arrested countless times. But it all changed once a certain army doctor came into his life and became his new and improved little voice.

Jim (or James, which was his first name), on the other hand, had no supportive parents. His mother had left them in one of the earlier days, leaving their father to become depressed and neglecting. His older brother (6 years apart), Jim, was looked at as an idol, but was unfortunately just as psychopathic as the younger brother was today. Jim eventually left, and never returned, and that explains why James took his name in favour. Hence, today's Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal. How appallingly sentimental of him.

No voice was around to stop him from taking home roadkill from the curb of the street. No voice was around to stop him from saying rude things, or even to hold him back from poisoning and drowning the bully from his school, Carl Powers. No one was there to fix it for Jim, so he fixed it for himself.

When you grow up without a voice, you grow up without sanity.

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**This is an intro I suppose... tell me what you think. Thanks for reading. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty are almost the equivalent halves of one another. The only difference is that Sherlock would do horrible things for love, care. Moriarty does horrible things for the pure entertainment. What will happen, when Jim gets to the Brilliant Consulting Detective? What will happen when the Consulting Detective finally snaps?**

**A/N: Helloooo. Okay, this is when the actual torture and violence warnings display. It isn't graphic at all though, nearly just mentions. I don't know if this is slash... but I guess it could be seen as platonic or not, however you perceive it. **

**WARNING: Torture, not graphic. Vulnerability between both brilliant characters.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters.**

**POST-REICHENBACH**

* * *

Sherlock was always adamant about showing pain, or admitting to any sort of weakness, but that didn't quite stop his screams when they became hoarse as the flame lowered down and burnt against his bare thighs.

It's been eight months since he has last seen daylight. Being kept in some dark cellar being used as a torture chamber for so long, you're surely to forget a few things from the outdoors. But in this case, Sherlock had forgotten what the actual light of day looked like. 'Deleted it', he put in his own terms. Everyday was surrounded by darkness, either that or a dim, flickering lightbulb that hung from the ceiling of the room.

The mask man flicked off the blow torch, and lowered it in which to place it onto the floor. Sherlock viciously exhaled and inhaled, being constantly interrupted by his own violent coughs. The man in front of him stood up from his kneeling position, pulling along the hot blow torch with him. He stared down the gasping detective, a wry grin clearly visible on his face. _Sadistic bastard._

"I gotta hand it to you," He started, slowly making his way towards the exit, leaving the blindfold over Sherlock's teary eyes. "Eight months, and you still haven't broken." He continued, standing at the door and switching off the light so that the entire room went pitch black, except for the bright light escaping from the corridor. He pulled up the corner of his mouth into another smirk, and shut the door behind him as he stepped out of the room.

Had anyone even been trying to look for him? Well, I guess the term 'anyone' is limited to very few people, considering that he was still in hiding. Mycroft, and some of his men are the only people who knew about his 'death'. And Molly.

Oh, Molly. How much Sherlock envied her was beyond words. She was able to see John, at cases that he went on, in the morgue, or just casual visits. Living with Mycroft was dull, and tedious. The days usually consisted of complaining and lecturing.

But he does miss it, he admits. It was tiresome, monotonous and incredibly dull in here, even more dull than listening to Mycroft's stupid complaints. Even the torture methods were getting predictable and boring. Awfully boring... Though he still hated the feeling of vulnerability when he'd sometimes let out a scream or start sobbing when they'd pull out his fingernails, or whip him, or burn him.

He was barely fed, but fed enough to keep him alive. Eight months of torture and he still hasn't faced his captor, supposed they were waiting for the right moment.

And a right moment it was.

The door creaked open and shut closed. Footsteps walked towards the detective, heel to toe, awfully slow and daring.

_Heavy feet. A male, approximately 150-160lbs. He's wearing dressing shoes._

The footsteps made a stop in its tracks, right in front of Sherlock, and stood there for another minute or so. Suddenly, a hand went to the back of the detective's head, fussing about to untie the blindfold. "You can speak, darling." A startlingly familiar sing-song voice spoke, echoing through the room. The blindfold fell, Sherlock squinted his eyes against the dim light as it shone so suddenly and filled his vision with blur. Why was that voice so familiar?

Eventually, the light cleared up in Sherlock's eyesight and he was able to see his captor. Noticing the bemused expression Sherlock gave, the captor responded with a smug smile, "Jim Moriarty. Hi." His voice seemed more raspy and slightly hoarse.

"What the hell-" Sherlock's world immediately fell and he slowly increased in a furious state. All this work, faked his death, for Moriarty to still be alive?! But he saw him pull the trigger and fall to his death! "How did you-"

"Oh Sherlock, that's an awfully rude greeting. You didn't really think I'd kill myself did you?" The older man mocked. How stupid of Sherlock to miss this. "Well, I almost did." He admitted.

"I-I saw you pull the trigger. You died!" Sherlock shouted in anger, slightly lunging he head forwards. _Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true._

_But how?_

"All it takes a lot of thought and concentration," Moriarty said, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he knelt in front of Sherlock so that they were eye level. "A person can still survive from a gun to the mouth. Just takes the exact angles and proper medical attention. It wasn't even a real bullet anyway. Nearly a blank."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly, expecting something... clever. How could he have not noticed something like this? The thought frustrated him.

"See what I mean? You always want everything to be clever." It was like Moriarty had read his mind, which was infuriating. The great detective can't even have the comfort of privacy in his own head? So what now? Why would Moriarty wait eight months to see his hostage?

Jim silenced himself for another minute or so before speaking blatantly as he circled around Sherlock and the chair he was bound in. "Your brother's been awfully worried," He leant behind Sherlock, and whispered into his ear. His hot breath sent a shiver down the detective's spine, causing him to tense his shoulders. "Awfully worried."

"How did you know that I would fake my death?" Sherlock asked in a booming voice, stretching his neck away from the madman's mouth and breath.

"Your pulse." Jim continued to circle around the chair and stopped in front of his other half, eye-level once again. He gave a pompous smile and continued, "We shook hands remember? You had an _awwwwfully_ faint pulse, Sherlock. Ball under the armpit trick? Clever. Of course I had a plan B just in case you would fake your death, I knew you wouldn't go down that easily... But I didn't expect little Molly to help you."

Sherlock's breathing went rigid and short, his eyes widened as he went to a conclusion. _Now what would happen to John? Or Lestrade? Or Mrs. Hudson? What is their outcome if I'm not really dead?_ Moriarty smirked as he must've have read the expression on his half's face.

"I'm quite disappointed, as well as you are, to be fair. I was looking forward to this 'final problem' plan. I thought of the entire thing myself! The fairytales. Richard Brooke. Everything." The madman's facial expression turned from a smirk to anger, his plucked eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed slightly. "We were supposed to go out _together_." He added in.

It was an odd thing for Jim to say, not only the entire phrase itself but just the word 'together'. But then again, he is a bit obsessed with the Consulting Detective and tends to overreact. Sherlock never bothered to question why, assuming it was just because they were both brilliant minds. Isn't that why, though?

"I don't-"

"We were just alike, Sherlock. Just alike. You and I. Lacking emotion. Divorcing ourselves from it. We started from a young age, at the same time too. We were the complete halves of each other... Until, you got that little pet of yours." Jim interrupted, speaking in a growling voice and making a disgusted face as he mentioned John. Where was he going with this? This is appallingly sentimental. But then again, Jim did look a bit out of character on the rooftop, before he 'died'. Glistening and hopeful eyes, as if he were forming tears. A lump in his throat. Slight shortness of breath. A tight grip when they shook hands, pulling Sherlock closer as he pulled the trigger. "Why do you like him anyway? Your pet? He's just as ordinary as everyone else. I'm just like you, if not the same, even better."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head slightly in confusion. "I don't understand." He simply responded. Where is Moriarty getting at? Yes, they were both equivalent in brilliance in the term of their minds, but they were nothing alike, not really. Jim had a hint of jealousy hidden in his voice and expression, too subtle and obscure for ordinary people to notice. It reminded Sherlock about John, how there was always a hint of jealousy whenever he mentioned the woman, Irene Adler. Or whenever he showed slight affection towards her. He didn't understand why, though. He wasn't in love with her, but rather attracted to her mind. He respected the fact that she managed to outsmart him. Perhaps that is the problem now. John, an ordinary person, managed to take the humanity out of the high-functioning sociopath, when nobody else could. _Is that it?_

Jim almost, almost looked upset, hurt. Just a quick flicker of sadness and disappointment and pain flashed through his eyes, that he quickly blinked away. Sherlock playing dumb on the rooftop was just plain irritating, but now... how could he not understand? Maybe Sherlock isn't the brilliant minded genius that Moriarty had thought him to be.

_And you were the best distraction and now I don't even have you, because I'm beatin' ya._

_Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people, and it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them._

_You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels._

Maybe that was just it. Sherlock was just ordinary this entire time. _No... that's not true. Of course he's not ordinary. We're just alike._ Why did it bother him so much, though? Surely a mind like himself shouldn't be so... sentimental.

"What is the point of all this anyway?" _Our final problem. Our problem._ Sherlock eyed the madman who was staring at him with a unsettling glare of disappointment. "All of this. Following me since Carl Powers?"

The point of all this? Jim would never admit it, too sentimental, but the point was, they were perfect for each other. No, not like that. Moriarty created Sherlock. If he hadn't killed Carl Powers, where would the Brilliant Consulting Detective be? He waited all these years just to finally meet in person, to officially become enemies. Hoping that there would be excitement, and no sentiment between them, until he discovered what John was to the so-called sociopath. John made him weak with emotion, John made him _ordinary_. And now, Jim Moriarty, the Great Consulting Criminal, really was alone.

Keep in mind, the two brilliant minds were both lonely, since birth. They went through the first years of life, being constantly suffocated with vicious names being tossed around; Freak. Psychopath. Machine. They've both spent nearly the whole of their life so far, alone, no one to relate to with such superior minds. At the age of 13, when Jim discovered an eight year old boy who had figured out how Carl Powers had died in merely just under a week, he felt... relieved. Happy. Someone else was finally just like him, life didn't have to be boring any more.

He was going to kill himself, with a bullet that was strong enough to shoot through mid-brain, yet not strong enough to kill an individual if aimed in the mouth with proper angles. He was merely just... let-down when he felt Sherlock's faint pulse, and changed the angles of the gun as he aimed it into his mouth, _not going out today_. At that moment on the rooftop, he grew angry and heartbroken, an emotion he's never really experienced before. The madman was disgusted with himself as he felt tears string into his eyes, trying to blink them away but failed as more of them formed. _We were supposed to go out together_. Yes, they were. Jim Moriarty, a man of life's suffering and loneliness, did not want to die alone. Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous man on earth, wanted to die with his perfect half, so he wouldn't have to suffer alone anymore.

At this point, Jim's breathing pattern grew heavy as he stared at the detective with furious eyes. His nostrils flared and his jaw tensed as he stood up to stare down at his so-called equal half. And then... a fist was thrown against the Detective's jaw, then another, then another. _I've made him angry somehow, but why?_

By the time Moriarty was done, Sherlock left side of the face was left bruised and bloodied as well as Jim's hand. The madman let his sore and trembling fist fall limp to his side. With his free hand, he straightened his suit from the creases from movement and stared down at the detective one more.

Sherlock left eye was closed from the swelling, his cheekbone bleeding with cuts. He stared up at the angry 'psychopath' who Sherlock expected to have a wry smile glued onto his face, but instead, a more broken facial expression. As you would see on a child who lost its favourite toy. He looked like a lost child, _perhaps this is the look John had mentioned about me on his blog._

**_I could see the look in Sherlock's eyes - a flash of, not anger, but hurt. For a second, he looked like a little, lost child._**

_How stupid of me to reveal such emotions on that very day, _Jim turned away, leaving the room pitch black, except for the dim light of the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Sherlock heard the door shut close and then everything went silent. He wanted to get out of here, badly, now knowing Moriarty was still alive. He was nearly done killing off his network. But... this situation bothered him. He grew determined to figure out was the madman meant.

_We were supposed to go out together..._

Sherlock shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Which was unlikely but it was worth a try. _On the roof. He expected us to die at the same location, nearby the same time. But why? Wouldn't he have wanted to celebrate my death? He 'killed' himself so that he wouldn't have to call off the gunmen, but that was part of my plan as well. Hm. Perhaps we do think alike._

_Oh. Stupid. Stupid._

_His ringtone. Who was it by? Gee Bees... Bee Gees... Something like that. Moriarty wouldn't have played over a song a certain amount of times without it having any meaning._ Sherlock closed both his eyes in concentration, or just his right eye, considering the other one was already swelled up. He took slow breaths and thought for a moment, searching for the lyrics to that song he had briefly heard, hoping he hadn't deleted it.

_I've been kicked around_  
_Since I was born._  
_And now it's all right. It's OK._  
_And you may look the other way._  
_We can try to understand..._

_Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,_  
_You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive._  
_Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin',_  
_And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive._

_Well now, I get low and I get high,_  
_And if I can't get either, I really try._  
_Got the wings of heaven on my shoes._  
_I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose._  
_You know it's all right. It's OK._  
_I'll live to see another day._

_Life goin' nowhere. Somebody help me._  
_Somebody help me, yeah._  
_Life goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah._  
_I'm stayin' alive._

How hadn't he noticed this before? But it all made sense. Surely Moriarty wouldn't have gone through life easy, if they were alike, his life would have been Hell. Beatings and harassment through primary school, middle school, high school. Good thing, Sherlock had his family, his... brother.

_Oh! That's it!_ The beaten detective nearly gasped in realisation in his seat. _Jim Moriarty didn't have a family, came from a broken home. Perhaps, no one was there to tell him things from right and wrong_. And then Sherlock came into a really abrupt realisation.

_He wanted to die with the person most alike to him in every way, me_. Sherlock opened his eyes and let out a breath. Oh how dramatic of him. But at the same time, Sherlock understood. Being alone in life, hell, he was alone practically all of it. Every flatmate that would come look at the flat would reject him in less than a day. They'd find out about his experiments, his deductions, or even the skull and walk out the door with the same words each time; _freak, psychopath._

Until he found John. He was the only person to stayed for more than a week. He was ordinary, yes, but was he different at the same time? Yes again. Not to mention, he was lonely. When two lonely individuals collide, they become one. After seeing that he was defeated by such an ordinary being, Moriarty finally got to his plan of meeting Sherlock in person, because the detective became too attached. Too late, though.

_James Moriarty, the so-called psychopath who turned out to be very human_, Sherlock chuckled aloud. _James Moriarty, the man who turned out to be the equivalent half of me._ The door creaked open.

_James Moriarty, the Greatest Criminal in the world.  
_

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**Okay. Thanks for reading! Review if you want?**


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